


family portraits

by Abbie



Series: family and (mis)fortune [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (oh my god does he try), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bad Parent Malcolm Merlyn, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Childhood Trauma, Found Family, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Snapshots, Well he tries, and several children he collects who look eerily similar to him, sometimes a family is one sad man in a weird costume
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abbie/pseuds/Abbie
Summary: Moments growing up in the life of Tommy Merlyn, part-time Wayne foster child.
Relationships: Tommy Merlyn & Bruce Wayne, Tommy Merlyn & Oliver Queen
Series: family and (mis)fortune [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621237
Comments: 67
Kudos: 73





	1. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's still on her bullshit! apparently this "where the hell did you even get that" au is a Thing i'm trying to make happen now. oops.
> 
> original meta post can be found on tumblr [here](https://absentlyabbie.tumblr.com/post/188204768713/family-and-misfortune).

“Do you have everything?”

Bruce stood in the foyer of the Merlyn home, waiting patiently as Tommy thumped sullenly down the stairs with his rolling suitcase. The nine year old was difficult to read, and that worried Bruce. He’d faced hardened criminals less inscrutable than this child.

He wasn’t expressionless or robotic. That would have been concerning in its own way, but Bruce might actually have expected it more. No, Tommy shuffled along as directed, sulky and subdued, all the fight seeming to have gone out of him after the only outburst he’d indulged in, when he’d first been informed of his new future. That in itself had been brief, burning hot and blowing out quick.

It wasn’t that Tommy didn’t feel. It was, to Bruce’s slowly calculating understanding, as if Tommy had learned over the last year and a half to bury every emotion he felt. As if he had learned that nothing he felt mattered or would change any part of his world. If he stood next to Tommy long enough, he could all but feel the anger and frustration and heartache radiating from his small body. But none of it did more than glimmer dully in his eyes.

More often than not, Tommy would rally to jokes and charming grins, but it didn’t require being Batman to see that for the distraction and desperate plea for attention that it was. 

He reminded Bruce more than a little of Dick, but Dick’s outgoing humor and mischievousness stemmed from confidence and a grounded sense of self and fun established in him by his parents. Tommy’s efforts to charm and amuse felt almost frantic to Bruce in comparison. He was hiding his wounds behind his laughter, and often seemed to launch into the behavior as a reaction to his environment, tailoring his level of animation to the responses of the adults around him on the fly.

Tommy Merlyn wanted to make everyone around him happy with him, make them smile, make them think about him fondly and want to have him around. He wanted to be the easy child, the delight that didn’t have to be worried about. He wanted to be loved.

And Bruce was extracting him from the only fragile connections the boy had woven for himself.

He wondered, not for the first time, if he was doing the right thing.

“Tommy,” he prompted softly, his question still unanswered as Tommy reached the bottom of the stairs.

Tommy heaved a longsuffering sigh, glancing around as if something he’d missed might be lying around in the foyer. “I guess so,” he muttered.

Tommy wheeled over to stand next to Bruce, shoulders slumped and neck bent. Bruce considered ruffling his shaggy dark hair, but even the thought felt awkward. He didn’t want to begin with Tommy by pretending affection they hadn’t built yet.

The boy had already had more false love in his life than he could ever deserve.

“We’re going to say goodbye to Ollie, right?” Tommy asked, the question like a touchstone he reached for over and over. He tilted his head up to eye Bruce warily, clearly not trusting him yet.

Bruce nodded and answered as he had the last four times. “The Queens will see us off at the airfield. And you’ll be back after the New Year to finish the school year in the dorms.”

Tommy’s brow wrinkled, the reassurance not touching the frown on his face even as he nodded. He looked around the room again, still frowning.

“You can say goodbye to the house, if you want. I could step outside and give you a moment alone.”

“No,” Tommy answered, immediate and vehement. He cut a quick, almost panicked glance at Bruce, quickly tucking all outward reaction away. “You don’t have to,” he mumbled.

“When you’re ready, then.”

They stood for a moment, side by side, as Tommy’s eyes wandered the room once more. Bruce watched him out of the corner of his eye.

Finally, as if he could no longer avoid it, Tommy’s gaze dragged to the wall directly opposite the grand front door. On it hung an almost massive gilded wooden frame, elegantly carved, holding a family portrait of the Merlyns. Bruce was quite certain it was a photo, but it was stylized in that way that made it seem almost painted. All three Merlyns stood together, smiling.

Malcolm wore a boxy-shouldered dark gray suit and a broad, toothy smile. To Bruce, it looked arrogant, and his eyes empty. He had one arm wrapped around Rebecca at his right side, and even in a flat portrait she looked warm and clever, the curve of her lips almost secretive. She and Malcolm each rested a hand on one of six-year-old Tommy’s shoulders, his hair and suit both cut like his father’s and his bright, beaming grin showing where he had lost a tooth.

The people in the portrait looked happy, comfortable and secure in their life.

Now only one was left.

“Do you want to take it with you?” Bruce offered quietly. “We could have it shipped to Gotham. There’s a room where we could put it in the house so you could look at it whenever you wanted.”

Tommy swallowed hard and his face went serious. In an adult, Bruce might have called it grim.

“No,” was Tommy’s only answer.

Bruce’s lips twitched with a frown he wouldn’t allow to take hold. He couldn’t quite divine what emotion hid behind the simple word, but he was sure that it swelled powerfully in Tommy’s thin chest. No child should sound so weighed down.

“It will still be here if you change you mind.” Bruce wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Tommy or not. “This is still your house. You can visit it whenever you’re in Starling. I’m sure Robert would bring you over.”

Tommy’s head shook, short and sharp, and there was that glimmer of anger backlighting his eyes again, a brief spark quickly smothered.

“No,” Tommy said again, and this time the word was even heavier. He turned around, wrestling his suitcase in line to pull after him as he started towards the door. His back to Bruce, his voice only wobbled a little as he added, “I don’t ever wanna come back here again.”

Bruce’s jaw set in a grim line at the hurt and loneliness it was now so obvious Tommy was trying to conceal. With one last cool glance at the portrait, at Malcolm, he followed Tommy out the door.

Maybe he was doing the right thing after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this will be updated sporadically and only hopefully in the correct chronological order. if you wash your hands of me here, i understand. be well, friends.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did warn you all this might not be in perfect chronological order, right? right.
> 
> quick note: bruce wayne at this time is 24 years old. a _baby_. who let this tall child fight crime and raise shorter children?

**January 1993**

It had been years since Bruce had seen Rebecca.

The last time he’d seen her face to face had been her wedding reception, and even after years of marriage to Malcolm Merlyn and the birth of their son, Bruce’s first instinct was to think of her as Rebecca Carlisle. She had been more than a decade older than Bruce, but he had only fond memories of her, one of the few old family friends who remained in contact with him after his parents’ deaths. His father, she had told him once, had been the reason she decided to go into medicine.

And now Bruce was in her home, a stone in a sea of black mourners’ suits, searching the tastefully appointed great room’s decor for echoes of the woman whom he had called a friend.

Aside from the photos placed here and there of the small Merlyn family, Bruce found the room empty of her presence, dressed in the coolly impersonal style of a well-paid interior designer, catering to the tastes of someone far less warm and vivid than Rebecca Merlyn.

Someone Bruce would have been unable to pick out of a lineup approached to gladhand him, his name already far too familiar on their lips. Sensing an imminent overture about stocks and mergers, Bruce smiled politely and made slick, quick excuses, slipping away through the crowd of Starling’s richest and most fashionably sad. He picked up a glass of scotch from the tray of a passing waiter, more for something to be seen doing than any desire to drink.

He carried the crystal tumbler like a shield, navigating the gossiping, murmuring crowd less with the aim of getting anywhere particular than being a more difficult moving target. Since pulling into the graveled drive in front of the ostentatiously modern Merlyn Manor, he had begun to wonder if flying out to Starling had been a mistake. There was little here in the way of honoring or grieving Rebecca, most of the attendees seeming to see the occasion as an excuse to socialize with members of their preferred class and goggle over the spectacle of tragedy amidst wealth.

Bruce’s distracted, evasive path took him through an open door and he found himself in a sitting room only a little smaller than the great room. It was less densely populated, mostly by the constraints of the room’s dimensions. By the windows, a circle of black-clad men gathered, all with their own glasses of expensively terrible alcohol in hand.

As Bruce drifted closer, hoping to take camouflage among the flock, he discovered Malcolm Merlyn holding court before them all.

Bruce’s mood soured even further almost instantly, though he tried to stifle it with a healthy dose of shame. The man had just lost his wife, but it was still too much effort to muster a charitable thought about Malcolm, even with Alfred’s chiding voice in the back of his head. On the one occasion they had met, at his and Rebecca’s wedding, Malcolm had made Bruce’s skin crawl in a way unmatched even by some of the nastiest criminals Bruce tangled with at night. There was just something contemptuous and cold blooded about Malcolm Merlyn that not even the most charming smile could disguise.

Bruce would never understand what Rebecca had seen in him.

Now, Malcolm leaned against a wall table like a king slouched on his throne, commanding the attention of his peers with eyes bloodshot and burning hot as coals, the skin of his lips twitching towards a sneer as he expounded on some point or other. Bruce hovered at the edge of the group, eyes narrowing as Malcolm’s words caught his attention.

“—the _real_ problem. Nothing will change, no part of this city can be lifted for the better, until that shithole district is raised from the level of its lowest gutters. Those _people_ live like animals, and they treat each other like animals. They _die_ like animals.” Malcolm’s hand tightened around his whiskey til the crystal squeaked, his voice thickening, darkening as he went on, “They let _my wife_ die like an animal. Like she was no better than the trash they come from.”

The hair on the back of Bruce’s neck raised at the rage running like a riptide under Malcolm’s words, and at the murmurs of agreement rippling through the men around him.

The sandy-haired man standing at Malcolm’s elbow, Robert Queen if Bruce recalled correctly, hummed thoughtfully, eyes on the amber liquid swirling in his own glass. “The city has neglected the Glades for nearly a generation, and I hate to see that this is the results of that neglect. We all throw money at the problem through our foundations and our companies’ charitable arms, but there’s been so little improvement. Even Rebecca’s clinic—”

Malcolm cut him off with a grim laugh. “Her _clinic._ She dedicated her goddamn life to helping these fucking people, gave up a top rate medical career to treat addicts and whores and help them pump out the next generation of gang bangers and criminals,” he snarled, “for practically _nothing_. And that’s how they thanked her in the end. With nothing. Like she was _nothing.”_

More rumblings of concurrence rippled through the men around Bruce, making him take a cool and assessing glance at each face, reach to recall each name.

“As far as I’m concerned, every one of them is as responsible for Rebecca’s murder as the thug who pulled the trigger,” Malcolm went on, all but growling. “Some ills run in the blood, and criminality and apathy is in the breeding, the culture of every part of the Glades. They don’t want to be helped, or bettered. They don’t want to be saved.”

He paused to toss back a slug of whiskey, in the motion catching sight of Bruce out of the corner of his eye. He turned the crowd’s attention with his, gesturing widely in Bruce’s direction with his drink. “ _You’d_ know, wouldn’t you, Wayne? Gotham is practically overrun in every corner with this trash, and I’d run out of fingers on both hands before I could stop naming ineffective and corrupt mayors, every one of them promising social change, every one of them steering their city deeper into the shit. Gotham doesn’t want to be saved, either.”

Bruce carefully unwound the tension in his shoulders and put on the affable, friendly mask he’d cultivated for his daytime persona, if a shade more somber. Around the bitterness on his tongue, he answered, “I don’t know that I’d agree to that. I’ve never seen that there’s a one-size-fits-all cure-all to such a complex problem, and I have to admit. It’s always struck me as reductive the way we view that stratum of society from on high and diagnose their problems without ever lowering ourselves to hear about the nuances and possible solutions from the actual people living those lives.” 

Malcolm’s expression got colder and sharper with every word, but Bruce was being as restrained as he could be; after all, the fist in his pocket had not yet introduced itself to Malcolm’s face. Refusing to break from Malcolm’s scalding stare, Bruce went on, “I think Gotham wants to be listened to about what they actually need and who they are, rather than ‘saved’ from themselves. I’d imagine your Glades aren’t any different.”

The sneer that had been twitching at Malcolm’s lips since Bruce arrived finally pulled across his mouth, baring his teeth even as he scoffed. “You make it so painfully obvious how young you are, kid. Shouldn’t have bothered to speak to you like a grown man who knows anything about the world. You better divest yourself of that naive optimism before the world rips it out of your hide, mark my words.”

A scattering of uncomfortable chuckles followed as Malcolm tossed back the rest of his drink, and the fist in Bruce’s pocket tightened so hard he felt his bones creak. Malcolm knew damn well who he was, and there wasn’t anyone who knew who he was who didn’t also know how much younger he’d been when life had killed any naivete he might have possessed.

Before Bruce could swallow his loathing and anger to formulate a response—or better, an excuse to leave—something bumped by his leg and a young child squeezed through the crowd to catch at Malcolm’s sleeve.

“Dad—”

“Not now, Tommy,” Malcolm dismissed irritably, pulling his arm away from the dark-haired little boy. “Go play with Oliver.”

The boy—Tommy—stuck his chin out stubbornly despite the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks and the tears that so obviously spiked his lashes. He reached for his father’s arm again. “But Dad—”

Malcolm slammed his glass down on the table, making more than just Tommy flinch. “I said _not now_ , Tommy. Do not make me repeat myself again.”

Bruce’s nostrils flared, his throat closing with fury at Malcolm’s display of temper towards his son. Bruce had seen Tommy at the funeral, small and miserable with tear-streaked cheeks as he stood alone in the cold wind through the eulogy and burial. It had pained Bruce to see him so abandoned, with not even a kind butler to hold his hand as his mother was lowered into the ground. It was too easy to see his own heartbroken face overlaid on Tommy’s, or Dick Grayson’s, the boy Bruce had felt for so keenly he’d taken him into his home only months ago.

Bruce took an ill-considered step forward, but at the same moment Robert Queen stepped aside to let a lovely blonde woman, his wife Moira, enter the circle and reach a hand towards Tommy.

“Tommy, dear, Oliver is looking for you. Come with me.” Moira waited until Tommy reluctantly took her hand, and she turned a sympathetic look to Malcolm.

Malcolm visibly swallowed his anger, showing a little of the grief he had buried underneath it. He reached out and squeezed Moira’s arm. “Thank you, Moira. Tommy forgets sometimes that he is not to interrupt when adults are talking.”

Tommy shrank under the warning glance his father cut at him, eyes lowering to the floor before Moira tugged him through the crowd and away.

Bruce’s gaze trailed after them as they exited the room, his disgust for Malcolm roiling nauseatingly with concern for Tommy. Now that he had seen more of the man Rebecca had married, he worried deeply for how the child she left behind would fare alone with his father.

His concern had apparently not gone unnoticed.

“Just wait, Wayne.” Malcolm recaptured his attention with his acerbic tone. “I heard you took in a foster kid recently. You’ll learn about that,” he gestured after Tommy with a roll of his wrist, “too.”

With those dismissive, mocking words, Bruce’s disdain for Malcolm crystallized, his anger going icy. When Malcolm got no answer from him, he returned to sharing his revelations about the poor with his wealthy friends, and Bruce waited only moments longer before he made a careful and quiet escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm genuinely amazed any of you are here reading my weird little passion project. wallow with me in the found family feels.


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship

Judging by the look on Bruce’s face, he would have preferred Dick not to be hanging from the chandelier by his knees the first time he brought Tommy Merlyn into the foyer of Wayne Manor.

Dick just gave him an upside down grin. The little kid Bruce was shepherding with a hand on his back had his eyes on the ground and a frown on his face. He looked… sad. And tired. Not the kind of tired you get after a long plane ride, but the tired of losing everything and not knowing where you are anymore. Dick winced, remembering that feeling way too clearly for comfort.

Tightening his grip with his knees, Dick swung the chandelier just enough to make it creak and fell back on his entertainer training, loudly calling, “Hi!” 

Tommy’s head jerked up, eyes wide with surprise as he looked around and then, finally, looked up. Dick waved as Tommy’s eyes widened even further, his mouth falling open. “Whoa! Cool!”

With another small swing, Dick let go and did a simple somersault, landing barefoot on the entry rug just in front of Tommy and Bruce. Dick stuck his hand out, still smiling. “You’re Tommy, right?” Tommy nodded, taking Dick’s hand and shaking it limply, still staring at Dick in awe. Dick couldn’t help but preen a little. “I’m Dick, I live here too. Wanna be friends?”

Tommy’s face broke out in a huge grin, eyes alight, and it was like the kid was transformed. “Seriously? Yes! That was so cool, how did you do that? Can I do that too?”

He turned excitedly to Bruce for the last question, and Dick didn’t miss the surprise on Bruce’s face. He wondered if it was because of the change in Tommy’s demeanor or because he wasn’t used to actually being asked permission.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bruce said slowly, which wasn’t the hard no Dick had been expecting. However, when Tommy instantly deflated, that light in his eyes all but flickering out, Dick figured he understood why Bruce was reluctant to really put his foot down.

“Oh.” Tommy’s shoulders slumped in disappointment and he looked quickly away from Bruce and back to the floor, embarrassment turning his cheeks pink.

Dick decided to come to the rescue and save Bruce from being the bad guy Tommy clearly didn’t need right now. “It’s because I’m a circus freak,” he announced blithely. Tommy looked back up at Dick in confusion and Dick nodded. “Really. I lived with my mom and dad as part of Haley’s Circus before here.” He threw his arms out wide, showboating a little. “The Flying Graysons! Famous trapeze artists and tumblers!”

“For real?” Tommy looked skeptical, but also interested again, like he wanted to believe Dick but didn’t want to be the dumb little kid falling for a joke. “But you’re a kid!”

“Hey, I’m fourteen,” Dick corrected, hands on his hips. “And I did my first show when I was eight. It takes a  _ lot _ of training and practice, like,  _ so _ much. Same somersaults over and over and over and swings on the low bars for  _ years _ before you ever get to go up the ladder.” He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Ages of boring before you ever get to the fun stuff.”

“Oh.” Tommy’s face scrunched up, clearly rethinking how interested he was in swinging from chandeliers. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick could see the relief telegraphed on Bruce’s face before he tucked it stoically away.

“So why’d you come live here?”

The question caught Dick off guard entirely, and he felt his cheery grin fall right off his face as Bruce inhaled quietly. Tommy’s expression was thoughtful and curious, and the question hadn’t been meant to be cruel. And though Dick really should have seen it coming, he supposed he was never going to stop being unexpectedly pricked by the grief and anger of that very last night at the circus.

“Tommy,” Bruce started softly, but Dick shook his head.

Looking Tommy in the eye, he answered seriously. “Same reason as you.”

Surprise flickered across Tommy’s face, and in an instant he was serious and sad and looked way older than nine. “I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t the syrupy, patronizing apology of adults who looked at orphaned kids like they were lost puppies, and it wasn’t the awkward, wincing sorry of people who just didn’t know what else to say and clearly wished they’d never asked.

Tommy said sorry like he meant it, because he understood it personally, and probably had heard it himself too many times already.

Dick just nodded, because it didn’t need dressing up and putting on a show, for either of them. “Me too.”

Tommy offered him a little smile that felt like the first real peek at who he was, a tentatively offered connection. Dick gave it right back.

He hadn’t been sure what this would be like when Bruce told him he was bringing some other kid home to live with them part-time. He knew Tommy was five years younger than him and had lost both his parents, same as Dick. Same as Bruce. And when Dick had asked, Bruce had been very firm that Tommy would under no circumstances be joining them in the Batcave and that Dick wasn’t to tell him about Batman and Robin.

It wasn’t like Dick was jealous, or nervous about being replaced, but he couldn’t quite picture what it would be like with some younger kid running around underfoot, if it would be annoying or fun. He knew how much it sucked to suddenly be an orphan, and Bruce was awkward at being comforting even if it counted that he tried really hard. So Dick had done his best to reserve judgement and try to be welcoming.

Now, though, he was pretty sure he and Tommy Merlyn were gonna get along just fine.

The front door opened again to admit Alfred, a rolling suitcase in hand. “Master Bruce, the car has been unloaded, and the rest of young Master Tommy’s belongings arrived yesterday. I took the liberty of unpacking some of them in your new room,” Alfred said to Tommy, smiling gently. “If you’d like to unpack your suitcase, you’re welcome to rearrange anything in the room as you like. It belongs to you now. If you’ll allow, I’ll show you where it is.”

“That’s cool, Alfred, I’ve got it,” Dick cut in, reaching out to take the suitcase from him. Smiling at Tommy, who was looking abruptly overwhelmed, Dick jerked his head towards the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you your new digs.”

Shoulders falling in relief, Tommy nodded gratefully and followed Dick in a clatter up the stairs.

Dick smirked as, behind them, Bruce said quietly to Alfred, “Remind me to reinforce that chandelier.”


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i remain forever on my bullshit, obviously. today's strain was fueled by a prompt from anonymous on tumblr.

Bruce was at a loss.

For reasons beyond comprehension, it hadn’t been nearly this difficult to bring Dick into his home; maybe they had just grieved too much the same, raged too much the same. Bruce had understood Dick all too well. Not that that had made things _easy_ at the very beginning, but it meant Bruce had something to start with.

Tommy was nothing like that.

He was certainly angry, and undoubtedly grieving. But everything he did was an attempt to hide or subvert those things. He was either bright and animated like a boy who didn’t know a fraction of his loss and hurt, or he was shut down and silent.

“He’ll open up,” Alfred assured him after the boys had gone upstairs. “You were rather a closed fist yourself in his position.”

“That was different,” Bruce replied, lips pressed in thought. “And I was never in his position.”

“No?” Alfred questioned, that one challenging eyebrow arched. “Alone in all the world, too full of things too large for that age?”

Bruce shook his head, the tilt of his smile wry. “I wasn’t truly alone. I had you.”

Alfred only hummed at that. Nevertheless, his point was made.

Huffing a laugh, Bruce nodded. “Alright. Fine. I’m going.”

Up the stairs and down the hall, past Dick’s room, down two doors and across the hall. The door was open, the boys’ voices spilling into the hall all chatter and laughter. It made Bruce breathe a little sigh of relief; he hadn’t known for sure if they would get along. He had of course thought it likely, the factors enough in favor of that outcome it had helped make the decision for him. But they were five years apart in age, and Bruce knew so little about Tommy and how he was likely to react that he was pretty much a wildcard.

He paused just outside the door, eavesdropping shamelessly.

“Oh cool, I’ve seen this movie. How come this one’s in your suitcase and not with the rest of your stuff?” Dick was asking.

“It’s my favorite,” Tommy answered, more solemnly than the context seemed to justify.

Dick’s cheer took on a valiant, striving edge. “Yeah? I get that. Robin Williams is _hilarious_. And man, Rufio, so cool right?”

“Yeah, Rufio’s _awesome_.”

There was a pause, then Dick asked, carefully lightly. “I guess that’s not why it’s your favorite though?”

A rustle of cloth, maybe a shrug. “My Mom got it for me. It was the last thing she gave me, before she…”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, if you ever wanna watch it, I’m in. Or not, if that’s better?”

“No,” Tommy hurried to reply. “No, that’d be cool.”

“Cool,” Dick echoed. “Wait’ll you see the entertainment room, it’s almost like being at the theater. Bruce almost never uses it, but I guess he figured if you’ve got a bazillion dollars and you’re gonna take in feral acrobats as a new and eccentric hobby, you gotta trick out one room with stuff kids like.” He paused, his voice dropping to a teasing stage whisper that might as well have been an elbow in Bruce’s ribs; his presence had been noted. “Honestly, it was probably Alfred, I’d bet.”

“Yeah? I mean, home was…” Tommy’s pause was less a hesitation than a sinkhole in the middle of his sentence. “I mean, we’re rich. Were rich. But this place is bigger. We didn’t have like a movie theater in the house or anything. Dad would’ve—”

Bruce held his breath, but Dick didn’t break into the sudden anger of that bitten-off phrase.

Anger banked to bitter, and Tommy forged through the end of the sentence. “Dad would’ve said something like that was a waste for just me.”

There was another pause, but it seemed like Dick was just letting that moment breathe for a second, letting the hurt bleed a little, bleed _off_ a little. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and so sincere Bruce was struck with gratitude that his protege was not merely clever and insightful, but so genuinely kind.

“Well, there’s two of us here. We’ll do movie nights, make sure we make good use of it.”

Tommy’s answer was quiet, shyly pleased. “Okay. That sounds good.”

Bruce figured he’d better make this his opportunity, otherwise the eavesdropping would stretch to a point that was just awkward. He stepped into the doorway, leaning against the jamb as he rapped his knuckles gently against the polished mahogany. “How’s it going in here?”

Dick turned to him with an amused raise of his brows, seated on Tommy’s bed with a plastic VHS case next to him. Tommy was standing next to him, his suitcase open on the foot of the bed, contents in the process of untidily transferring to the chest of drawers against the wall. It hit Bruce like a punch to the chest—and he’d know—the way Tommy visibly closed up at the sight of him.

He’d need to address that, and soon. At least try.

In fact…

Bruce cleared his throat and canted his head towards the hall. “Dick, can you give me a minute with Tommy? I’m sure Alfred could use some help with dinner.”

Dick launched gracefully to his feet with a melodramatic sigh and accompanying eyeroll. “Fine. I mean, it’s not like we can let _you_ do it. I want dinner to be edible, and Alfred doesn’t deserve that kind of stress.”

Bruce just rolled his eyes towards the ceiling as if his patience were perhaps hidden in the attic. Dick snickered. He passed Bruce and out the door, squawking indignantly as Bruce took mild revenge by ruffling his hair. Dick bobbed away and stampeded down the hall.

Bruce smiled fondly after him a moment before turning to Tommy.

The younger boy wasn’t looking at him, head bent as he sloppily folded a pair of jeans that had been more neatly folded before he began. His movements were slow and clumsy, and Bruce knew he was paying less attention to his task than he was to appearing to not pay attention to Bruce.

Inhaling deeply, Bruce reached for somewhere to begin. “Mind if I come in?”

Tommy looked up at him, first with surprise, then muted skepticism. “It’s your house.”

“And your room,” Bruce pointed out mildly, inclining his head. Tommy blinked at him and he let his smile show just a little more. “Hopefully you’ll think of this as your house, too, someday.”

That statement _struck_.

Bruce’s chest clenched in surprise and a tinge of regret at the way Tommy’s face flickered—first with shock, then a longing so piercing it _howled_ , then a cynical misery he wasn’t nearly old enough for—before blanking entirely.

Tommy’s only answer, in the end, was a shrug.

Wincing, Bruce scratched idly at the back of his neck. “You don’t have to, of course. I don’t want to pressure you, Tommy. I know this is all sudden, and very far from home, and you don’t know me well.”

Tommy stared at him, jeans forgotten in his hands and brows pulling together with each word in a dubious frown. “Well. Yeah.”

Bruce chuckled a little awkwardly, at himself. He wasn’t exactly sticking this landing. “I’m just trying to say that I hope you can feel comfortable here. I want you to feel like this is home. Like you have a place here.”

Tommy worried his upper lip with his teeth, brows still knotted over that steady gaze. For a moment, he looked like he might actually show Bruce how he was really feeling, like they might actually, really connect.

His thin chest expanded on a deep breath, and Bruce waited, hopeful.

But then Tommy’s face twisted in a _duh_ expression Dick would have been proud to pull off. He smirked in that ridiculing way only children manage, but his tone wasn’t mean so much as teasing when he said, “That’s what you were trying to say?”

Bruce wished he could take back the laugh that startled out of him. He genuinely did. It only encouraged Tommy to push that fake humor further.

Tommy’s smirk bloomed into a grin that would have been brilliant if it hadn’t been paper thin. “You’re not very good with words, are you.”

Bruce arched his brows at the sling of that sass. God, if he and Dick ever ganged up on him, he was in deep shit.

Worse, he was about to have to squash it.

He couldn’t just let this go on. Let Tommy keep tumbling into whatever role he thought would play best to his new audience whenever he didn’t want to feel what he was feeling, or was afraid how it would be used against him.

(It made the fist in his pocket clench, to think of who must have taught him that survival mechanism. He was a _little_ _boy_. No nine-year-old should be this attuned to the moods of the adults around them. Too many, _too_ many of those adults had shaped Tommy this way when he was too young and too malleable, and if the first to do it weren’t already dead, Bruce would be hunting down Malcolm Merlyn under cape and cowl for a reckoning.)

“You don’t have to do that, Tommy.”

He said it softly, but Tommy still flinched. Barely visible, too consciously suppressed for Bruce’s comfort.

His chin briefly wobbling, Tommy widened his eyes and stiffened his upper lip, looking down at his half empty suitcase and deflecting, “It seems rude to make that Alfred guy do it. They’re my underwear.”

Bruce sighed. “You know I’m not talking about your clothes.” Finally, he moved into the room, stopping a couple feet on the opposite side of the bed, both hands in his pockets, shoulders in a posture intended not to intimidate. Tommy hunched anyways. “You don’t have to make me laugh to stay here. You don’t have to be _anything_ to stay here. Just you. I know you’ve been shuffled around and left waiting to know where you were allowed to be. So I’ll just say it. You’re allowed to be here.”

Tommy’s head jerked up and he stared, eyes round and tense, that betraying wobble back in his chin. His breath hissed too rapidly from his nose, knuckles going white on the edge of his open suitcase. Quiet but heated, he whispered, “For _now_.”

Bruce felt his own face betray him, saw Tommy’s sharp eyes clock the devastated twitch of his brows, the parting of his lips.

Immediately, reflexively, Tommy’s mouth split in another grin bright and false as tinted foil. “I mean. You said I’m going back to Starling for school, right? So. For—for _now_. Then, I’m back at school. I’ve never been in the dorms. It’ll probably be… cool.”

Bruce firmed his jaw and tucked his chin, meeting Tommy’s fevered eyes seriously. He ignored the entire tumble of words, cutting through the panic, through the act. Direct, Bruce Wayne could do. “You belong here. Not just now. Yes, you’ll go back to school. And when school is out, you’ll be back. Because you’ll _still_ belong here.”

Tommy’s defenses—too well built, too resilient—finally cracked. His grin faltered, slipped. And when it dropped entirely, tears spilled sudden as a faucet over Tommy’s cheeks. He jerked, wiped frantically at his face, and when the tears kept coming and his breath hitched in a sob, he turned sharply away, putting his back to Bruce.

“I-I’m fine,” he stammered damply. “I’m fine. Sorry. I’m fine.”

Bruce’s heart clenched so tightly he thought it might implode from the pain of seeing how disposable this child had been made to feel. “No. You’re not. And that’s okay. Even if you’re not fine, you still belong here.” He paused as Tommy glanced at him over his shoulder, face red, tears still coming, shoulders shaking. “I probably should have said that in the first place.”

Maybe it was time to stop waiting on Tommy. Maybe it was time to reach towards him first for once. Bruce moved around the foot of the bed, stopping and sitting gingerly beside the suitcase when Tommy whirled towards him, tripping back a step over his own feet.

Bruce tried a smile for him as Tommy just stared at him and cried. He still hadn’t responded to being told he belonged. Bruce suspected he was afraid to.

Sighing, he nodded, smile rueful. “You were right, I’m not very good with words.”

This surprised a wet laugh out of Tommy, a muffled giggle that made him sound more his actual age. “Told you.”

Bruce’s eyes crinkled back at Tommy, and Tommy tried to fist the wet tracks off his flushed cheeks.

Lifting his head higher, Bruce pushed the suitcase towards the pillows and patted the comforter beside him. “Well. I may not be the best with words, but I’m told I’m great with a hug.” He held an arm out to the side, an offer. “If that’s alright?”

Tommy hesitated, biting his lip so hard Bruce worried it would bleed. Finally, haltingly, Tommy closed the steps to the bed and sat next to Bruce. Meeting him halfway. Bruce’s heart soared in triumph and relief and he wrapped his arm around Tommy’s shoulders—too thin, small for his age—and squeezed him gently against his side.

Letting his head fall against his shoulder, Tommy tsked. “Great with a hug, huh?” Bruce looked down at him with a raised eyebrow and caught the edge of Tommy’s smirk, the boy’s head angled down. This smile, at least, looked real. “Somebody lied to you.”

Bruce didn’t try not to laugh this time, and Tommy’s joined his, filling the room.

He hoped it was a sound they’d all get used to.


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did not intend this chapter, or really this part of the series, to be _quite_ this much an exploration of the psyche of an abused child, but uh. i probably should have known better, being me. that said, there's no actual abuse in this chapter, but tommy is deeply shaped by the after effects and it's saturated through every part of his perspective here. so if that may be triggering to you, take care of yourself. if you need to brace yourself, take a deep breath.
> 
> as i said in discussing with distinctive_pineapples while writing this, this is the kind of pain that has the hope of relief threaded down the middle. tommy's life is taking a much better, safer, healthier turn in this au, but it starts still rooted in the dark before it grows towards sunlight.

Gotham was not Starling City.

It was loud, like cities should be, but the noise was different from the background of Tommy’s first nine years and nine months of life, with steam hissing through sidewalk grates and the subways rushing and rumbling and the elevated railways clacking and roaring. Everyone talked like they were in a hurry and the fastest way to get somewhere was to take the least possible time to say anything. Even the accents were weird, clipped but broad.

The days were rainier in Gotham than Starling, and grayer, usually overcast when it wasn’t raining. Every step down the city streets splashed or scraped with that wet grit of sneaker sole on damp pavement. Starling rained plenty, but the showers usually gave way to sunshine, and wet on the streets shone with color and light like the city itself. It was colder here, too, and everyone seemed to expect it would snow before Thanksgiving.

Gotham wasn’t _home_.

Tommy was trying his best not to hold that against it.

Technically, he knew, he didn’t have a home anymore.

And Dad always used to say that beggars can’t be choosers.

He also used to say no son of his was weak enough to beg. That Merlyns were strong, and that you had to take what you wanted out of life.

Tommy was still a Merlyn, but he felt pretty weak these days. He couldn’t imagine taking anything from life when everything had already been taken from him. He thought he didn’t mind if this made him not his dad’s son. It had felt that way for a long time, so might as well make it official. That is, if being an orphan didn’t do that already.

All these thoughts stewed together in Tommy’s gut like too much soda and bad corndogs, grumbling and cramping. It was hard to keep the scowl off his face as he trailed behind Bruce and Dick down the sidewalk, dirty Gotham rainwater soaking his socks and making his feet squelch in his sneakers, but Tommy didn’t want to be caught looking like a problem. Bruce got that _look_ every time he caught Tommy scowling, or frowning, or even _smiling_.

Tommy could usually tell who adults wanted him to be or had decided he was. Bruce was frustrating. Nothing seemed to be right. He’d said the day he brought Tommy here that Tommy only needed to be _him_ , and as nice as that had sounded, Tommy couldn’t trust it. Because he wanted to, he knew he shouldn’t.

Nobody wanted Tommy to be himself.

Nobody wanted _Tommy_.

He was sure Bruce had come in out of nowhere and claimed Tommy for some reason. There was _some_ kind of Tommy that Bruce was looking for him to be. He just hadn’t figured out what it was yet. And he needed to hurry it up, before somebody decided there’d been a mistake and it was time to send Tommy somewhere else.

(If he thought this would get him sent back to Starling to live with the Queens, Tommy would wear out his welcome with Bruce Wayne by the weekend, no doubt. But the Queens didn’t want him, or he wouldn’t be here in the first place.)

Gotham might not be home, but Alfred was nice, and Dick was really cool, and if Bruce decided to keep Tommy, Tommy would still get to spend most of the year in Starling. With Ollie.

At least Ollie wanted him.

For a second, he missed Ollie so fiercely he couldn’t hear, feel, or see anything else—

—and in that second, he tripped right up the stairs leading up to the front doors of Wayne Enterprises.

Tommy cried out in surprise and windmilled his arms, eyes squeezing shut in anticipation of falling flat on his face and losing a whole lot of skin. But instead of the harsh, scraping impact on the cement and hard angles, there was a tight grip around his upper arm and a sharp jerk against the pull of gravity.

Tommy stumbled instead of fell, and the grip on his arm didn’t let go.

“Whoa there, maybe leave the tumbling to the trained professionals, yeah?”

Tommy opened his eyes to see Dick a step and a half above him, upper body twisted around and one arm thrown back as a counterweight to the hand curved around Tommy’s thin arm. Tommy’s eyes went wide and his cheeks burst into flame, but Dick just grinned, those dark blue eyes always laughing—but not _at_ Tommy.

“Thanks,” Tommy mumbled, rubbing his arm as Dick let him go.

“Everything alright?”

Tommy flinched at the mild question, but Dick didn’t even glance back at Bruce, turned towards them on the top step with his hand on the door. Tommy’s eyes darted across Bruce’s stupid unreadable face, heart pounding harder than when he’d been bracing to kiss the pavement.

He waited for the disappointed purse of lips he would’ve seen on Moira. Anticipated the irritable, snapping demand to pay attention Dad would have barked for Tommy’s embarrassing flailing. Even the exasperated impatience the au pair Dad had hired for a while would have huffed with.

Bruce’s brow furrowed just a little and he looked Tommy up and down. Tommy felt every inch the grubby, clumsy brat, too much work, not smart enough, too inconvenient, not quiet or easygoing enough, just _too much_ and _not enough_ from head to toe.

But Bruce just nodded to himself and pushed his mouth into a smile that looked like it was supposed to be reassuring. He pulled open the door and gestured to the boys to head inside with a sweep of his hand.

Tommy hurried through the door on Dick’s heels, doing his best not to hunch his shoulders or duck his head. If he looked too tense, Bruce might try to _talk_ to him. He was even worse at talking than he was at hugs.

(Although, Tommy figured he might deserve at least a little credit for trying. Not everybody bothered.)

Tommy had been in plenty of big-deal office buildings before, but even so, his head tipped back and mouth fell open as he stepped into the lobby of Wayne Enterprises. 

He’d been in the Merlyn Global Group building many times, and in Queen Consolidated often, too. They both looked kind of the same, all flashy colors and sharp lines and things his dad had called “sleek” and “modern.” The biggest difference between them that Tommy could tell was that his dad’s company liked darker colors and Mr. Queen’s company was bright and friendly colors.

Wayne Enterprises didn’t look anything like that. Everything was curves and arches and warm orange-yellow colors and bronze or brass or whichever metal that was. He was pretty sure the style was called “art deco” but not, like, _sure_ sure. He liked art and the way things looked and he always paid more attention during history lessons when they talked about art periods and styles, but it was hard to remember what was called what for longer than it took to take a test about it.

Tommy stood in Wayne Enterprises’s lobby and stared around, and he decided he liked it. Dad’s company made him think it was trying too hard to be cool, and Mr. Queen’s like it was trying too hard to be fun. Bruce’s company made Tommy feel like they had what his mom would call class. It was impressive, like they knew what they were about and so did you and they could just do what they liked without trying too hard to _seem_ impressive.

If he ever ran a business someday like his dad had wanted him to, Tommy thought he might want it to look kind of like this.

“Fancy, right?” Dick asked, the question only just making Tommy realize the older boy was standing beside him.

Tommy cut a quick glance towards Bruce, standing just on the other side of Dick. He shrugged his shoulders in a casual jerk. “It’s really different from Merlyn Global. I guess it’s pretty cool.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said, weirdly serious for a compliment from an almost ten year old. Bruce smiled at him. “I saw you looking at the architecture and design. Call me biased, but I’d say you’ve got a good eye.”

A quick surge of pride leapt bright and warm in Tommy’s chest. He squished it ruthlessly, like a bug. He gave Bruce another shrug, like it didn’t matter.

“My father was very proud of the choices he made in Wayne Enterprises’s aesthetic. It’s needed a little updating from time to time of course, but I’ll give him credit, it’s very classic, difficult to go out of style. And I can speak from experience that style does matter.”

Bruce looked around fondly as he spoke, and Tommy remembered that Bruce’s parents weren’t around anymore either, and hadn’t been for a long time. He wasn’t even that old. Bruce talked about his dad like he still missed him, and Tommy couldn’t help but feel a little jealous, even if it also maybe made him like Bruce a little bit more.

“Your dad had good taste,” he said awkwardly. It sounded like something nice his mom would’ve said, and grownups always talked about “taste” like it was important.

Bruce laughed softly and thanked him again, and Dick gave Tommy a subtle nod like he’d said the right thing. Tommy let out a little bit of breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Come on,” Bruce said, reaching out a hand like he’d rest it on Dick’s or Tommy’s shoulders but not actually touching either of them. “We’re here to give you a tour. It’d be a shame to stop with just the lobby.”

“You’re gonna _love_ the R-and-D department. That’s where all the sick gadgets get made,” Dick enthused with a grin, walking backwards to talk to Tommy as they followed Bruce towards the elevators.

Bruce turned a narrow-eyed, half-amused warning look on Dick as he hit the call button, but Dick just spun on his heel to turn that grin on Bruce in sunny defiance. Bruce shook his head and heaved a sigh, but there was a smile sneaking into the corner of his mouth.

Tommy watched this with interest and wondered if maybe _this_ was what Bruce was looking for. If playing the rascally jokester, cheeky and endearingly feisty, was the way to go to fit here. It would hardly even be an effort. The trouble was, he wouldn’t be as good at it as Dick. Tommy could do the jokes—the worse the better—and he was usually pretty good at being endearing, but Dick was funnier, livelier, and he had the circus thing going for him.

No, imitating Dick could backfire too easy. It might be fun and charming from Dick, but if Tommy piled on the same and made it annoying and obnoxious, one of them might have to go and Tommy already knew it wouldn’t be Dick.

He chewed over ideas on the ride up the elevator, but they slipped away once they started visiting different departments on different floors.

Everyone greeted Bruce. Everyone had always greeted Tommy’s dad at work, too, but this wasn’t like that. At Dad’s work, everyone always seemed nervous and like they were being on their best behavior, which Tommy understood. But Dad only ever paid attention to people in charge, and it seemed like it was mostly to remind them that he was in charge of _them_.

The people at Wayne Enterprises greeted Bruce like they respected him, but also like they liked him, and even more like they _knew_ him. Bruce stopped to chat with most people, asking them questions about their families or projects or stuff they liked. Which meant he _knew_ all of that. But what Tommy couldn’t figure out was _why_ he knew it. And he didn’t seem fake about it either. He sounded like he cared what the answer was when he asked about them.

Even more, everyone seemed to know Dick, too. Tommy knew Dick had been living with Bruce for two or three years already, but he must have come by Wayne Enterprises a lot in that time. People talked to him. And he talked back, and Bruce didn’t seem to mind. Dad would have clenched his jaw and quietly but sternly reminded Tommy that children were to be seen and not heard. But people here treated Dick like he was just… a person.

It was almost enough to break something in Tommy’s head. Adults didn’t treat kids like they were _people_. It was like he’d stumbled into some kind of weird Twilight Zone episode.

All of this served to make Tommy unusually shy when Bruce introduced him, and he introduced him to _everybody_. He hadn’t been prepared for all these people to be looking at him, and worse, paying attention. What were they seeing? Some orphan tagalong? Somebody who didn’t belong?

He got more and more tense with each hand he shook, waiting for all the questions he hated most. Where were his parents. Was he here with family. 

How long would he be staying.

The questions didn’t come.

Any time it would start to come up, or someone looked like they were going to start asking, it got deftly shut down. To Tommy’s growing awe, Bruce and Dick worked like some kind of coordinated act, with Bruce smoothly slipping in a “Tommy’s going to be staying with us from now on” and handing off to Dick to distract with a joke or a question of his own.

It was kind of amazing. It explained enough, was polite, even friendly, but was firm that this was all the information they needed about it. And nobody pushed back or pretended not to get it. Tommy hoped he’d be able to figure out how to do that himself sometime.

The other options were trying not to cry in front of strangers, or angry outbursts, and those were bad options that would get him labeled a problem faster than he could sneeze.

After a while, some three or four floors later and in a department Tommy couldn’t remember, Bruce got pulled a little away to look at something, leaving Tommy and Dick standing around by a short conference table with a bowl of peppermints on it. Dick grabbed a handful and tossed Tommy a couple as well.

Unwrapping one of his mints, Dick nudged Tommy with an elbow and asked quietly, “You doing okay? The whole tour’s kind of a lot, I know.”

“Yeah,” Tommy answered, frowning down at one of his own mints and slowly untwisting the plastic. “I’m good. It’s just. Yeah, it’s a lot. There’s _so_ many people, I didn’t know we were gonna be talking to all these people.”

Dick popped his peppermint into his mouth and leaned against the table, nodding sagely. “It’s a big company, like, really big actually, but this is the home office and Bruce likes to know everybody, kind of acts like it’s just a small family thing.” He smiled, his mint clacking against his teeth. “Actually kinda reminds me of the circus.”

Tommy’s head pulled up sharp, the skeptical scrunch of his face making Dick laugh.

“Okay, there’s a lot less spandex and sequins, sure, but I mean the way everybody is sort of a family. Or, community, whatever. People who can be kind of annoying but care and look out for you.” Dick shrugged.

Tommy sure liked the sound of that, but it just… didn’t sound real to him. He thought maybe that was something wrong with him, not the other way around. So instead of saying anything about that, he made his skeptical face scrunchier and, when Dick raised an eyebrow back, asked, “So did you wear a lot of spandex and sequins?”

Dick’s eyes widened slowly as he realized Tommy was poking fun at him. His lips twitched. “Listen,” he said, then, mouth blooming full into a smile, he reached for Tommy. “C’mere, brat.”

Tommy giggled and ducked away, darting around to the other side of the conference table. “Betcha were _super cute_ in tights.”

“I’m gonna get you,” Dick declared, the menace ruined by laughter. “Get back here. Don’t think I won’t come over that table, I’m an _acrobat_.”

Tommy cackled, shuffling left and right as Dick feinted at coming around one way then the other. “I dunno, can you do that in jeans or do you need the outfit?”

Dick squawked in outrage—and how he did that without choking on his peppermint, Tommy didn’t know—and vaulted, literally, hands smacking on the table and legs going _up_ as he went _over_.

Squealing, Tommy hurried under the table, the rolling chairs clacking together as he shoved them out of his way to pop out on the other side. He bounced to his feet and turned to see Dick narrowing his eyes at him, looking mildly impressed. It made Tommy grin so hard it almost hurt his cheeks.

“ _Boys_.” Bruce’s exasperated voice brought Tommy’s head whipping around and he went still. Bruce had crossed half the room towards them, arms folded and head shaking.

(For a moment, Tommy felt the whole world tip a little sideways, and the ghost of his father stood there next to Bruce. Instead of loosely crossed arms and a warm glittering in the eye, Malcolm Merlyn stood straight as a sword, chin up to show the height of his disappointment, arms at his sides and hands in discreet fists. For a moment, Tommy couldn’t believe what he’d done, how stupid he’d been to be so embarrassing and poorly behaved in public.)

There was laughter behind Bruce, a man a little older than Bruce sitting at a desk and smiling wide and chuckling openly. “You sure have your hands full now, Mr. Wayne.”

A woman in a suit at the whiteboard on the other side of the room grinned. “Just wait until they start ganging up on you. I’ve got twins around their age and they’ll run circles around you before you can blink.”

Bruce made a rueful, amused sound. “Please don’t give them any ideas.”

“Oh, it’s way too late for that,” Dick announced, leaning across the table and beaming. “I’ve got a partner in crime now.” Bruce made a little face at that, but Dick just looked encouraged, grinning wider. “We’re gonna drive you absolutely _batty_.”

All this laughter and joking, everyone teasing and having fun.

But Tommy just tried not to breathe too loudly, hands balled up and trembling at his sides.

_Don’t make me go don’t make me go don’t make me go_

Bruce sighed, and the sound could have been a gunshot in Tommy’s head. He didn’t blink as Bruce closed the distance between them, and it was only because he was frozen that he didn’t flinch when Bruce committed this time, his hand landing light and large between Tommy’s shoulderblades.

“To be honest,” he said softly, looking back and forth between Dick and Tommy, lips curling without force or hiding, “I’m looking forward to it.”

Laughter around them, warm and friendly, and Dick and Bruce smiling, Bruce’s hand on his back.

Slowly, so slowly, Tommy felt his body loosen again, felt his lungs expand in full.

The danger was passed. He was still here. He didn’t know what he’d done right, but he’d work hard to figure it out. Because he was still here.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enormous thanks of course to distinctive_pineapples for cheerleading throughout and helping me make sure i was keeping the narrative honest and to know where to tie it off. and thanks also to StoriesofImagination for reassuring me about how to write a kid who sounds like an actual (almost) ten year old kid.


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know who's even still out there interested in my extra-niche pet project, but uh, sorry about the ow of this one. it has to hurt before it heals, you see.
> 
> content warning: kids and panic attacks/trauma.

Tommy woke with a jolt and a gasp.

His heart raced unsteadily and his pajama shirt stuck to him uncomfortably with sweat, and he groaned, dragging the the thick blankets over his head and smooshing his face into the pillow.

His stomach hurt, that sore, sour-pinch kind of hurt that wasn’t being sick or hungry. It wasn’t a bad dream. It never was. Not when he woke up like this.

He didn’t know what woke him this time any more than he ever did. All he knew, for a moment, was a bonfire-tall burn of anger and desperate frustration that this was happening again. Shouldn’t it be over now? Shouldn’t he have left that behind at ho—at Merlyn Manor?

It _never_ happened at the Queens’. And it shouldn’t be happening _here_.

Miserable and irritated, Tommy pushed upright in bed, one hand untwisting his shirt from around his thin torso as he looked around the dark room.

It was so… _big_. And in the dark, it looked even bigger, the thickest shadows swallowing up the edges and corners so the room might have been endless. The curtains were pulled most of the way shut on the huge window, just a little dull moonlight slipping through the crack to shade everything gray and blue and glint on brass doorknobs and drawer handles.

Tommy pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them, looking around the room sullenly until his eyes adjusted enough to make out the markers. Footboard. Dresser. Closet. Desk. Bathroom door. Bedroom door.

Still, his heartbeat sped, faint and fast like it was too afraid to slow down or thump harder, louder, and the knot in his stomach tightened.

It wasn’t the _dark_ that bothered him.

Frowning harder, Tommy turned to look at the bedside table and the digital alarm clock. A little after midnight. Everybody was probably sleeping, but Bruce or Alfred might still be up. This was already the third time Tommy had woken up like this, and each time, he’d crept down the halls until he saw light on in a room and heard somebody moving inside. The adults in Wayne Manor were night owls.

He never went _into_ the rooms. Never knocked on doors or added his voice to theirs. He didn’t want Bruce or Alfred to know he was there, in the hall, pressed against the wallpaper and listening to them _be_ until he was sure they were real. He just wanted to know that _they_ were there.

Although, really, what he wanted most was to not need to know.

Tonight, he tried to be tough. To be older and more confident. To be less messed up. Like Dick, or Ollie.

He sat in the middle of the bed, staring at his feet, plucking absently at his socks, and tried to pretend he was fine. He was fine.

He was _fine_.

But seconds ticked to minutes and his heartbeat didn’t calm and his stomach didn’t ease up, and slowly, slowly, all he could hear was his own breathing, coming faster and faster, and the cool air icing the cold sweat on his skin, sticking his hair to his scalp, the heavy, hollow _quiet_ pressing and pressing and—

With a frustrated whimper, Tommy stumbled hurriedly out of the bed, his foot catching on the comforter enough to make him almost fall. He lurched for the door, grasping onto the cold brass knob. He held still—held his breath—and listened.

No footsteps. No voices. Nothing just outside his door.

The buzzing desperation started its itching vibration low in his bones and he turned the knob, slow and careful, so the door unlatched as quietly as possible.

He would make as little noise as possible. Be as silent as he could make himself.

The better to hear _someone else_.

Slowly, slowly, he eased into the hallway, leaving his bedroom door cracked behind him. He crept down the middle of the hall runner, socks silent on the soft rug. The distance down to Dick’s bedroom door seemed to be miles, and when he got there, ear pressed to the polished wood, he heard…

Nothing.

The vibrating ratcheted higher so Tommy could feel the buzz in his ears.

 _Doesn’t mean anything_ , he insisted to himself. Pleaded. He’d only been able to hear Dick once, turning over in his bed. He didn’t snore, and it was stupid to think he could hear the older boy breathe from here.

And the _last_ thing he wanted was to open Dick’s door and risk getting caught listening to him breathe like a weirdo.

Feeling like he was prying nails on the bottom of his feet from the floorboards, Tommy stepped back from Dick’s bedroom and continued down the hall. When he reached the main second floor landing, he paused, but decided against heading into the wing where Dick had told him Bruce’s room was. Nobody had told him to stay out of there, but it felt forbidden anyways.

He wouldn’t go there if he didn’t have to.

Instead, he went careful and quiet down big staircase. From the foyer, he went first towards the practical part of the house, where the kitchen and things lived. When Alfred was up late, he was sometimes there. Tommy thought he might sleep somewhere around there too.

It was all dark. Dark and quiet.

And empty.

The buzzing started to rattle in the roots of his teeth and a cold, queasy curl of worry added to the knot in Tommy’s stomach like a green strand.

This time, he headed for the wing with all the comfortable living and entertaining space. Bruce was there a lot, and sometimes Alfred was with him.

But he walked down one hall, and then another. No warm glows around the edges of door frames. No clinking plates or cups, or rustling paper, or murmuring voices. 

His lungs started to feel small.

Tommy started opening doors.

One by one, he checked the billiards room, the game room, the study, the music room, even the portrait room, Martha and Thomas Wayne’s flat, painted eyes staring down at him through the shadows. Silent and long, long gone.

“They’re here,” Tommy muttered to himself. Even to his own ears, it sounded like begging. “They’re here somewhere.”

As usual, the sound of his own voice did nothing to help. Just a faint a hollow sound that died in all the empty air.

He poked his head into the library—a room he’d started to like, with its secret bottom shelf of comic books Dick had shared with him—but got no further, recoiling in a frightened horror. It was as dark and empty and _quiet_ as everything else, but the tall ceilings and sound-devouring thick carpets and book spines were somehow worse than the rest.

It was too much space full of _no one_. No one.

The big study, with the fancy grandfather clock, was as bad as the library, and Tommy only peeked through those double doors, his eyes fast and frantic as they darted from sofa to chair to table to shelf and found no one _no one no one_.

Tommy pulled that door shut hard enough that the noise echoed sharply against the arched ceiling of the hall, pulling Tommy’s spine up like a string tightened. He balled his hands into fists and bit his bottom lip to keep from whimpering as he whirled on socked heel to head back down hall and corridor until he reached the foyer again.

There, he stopped and looked up the stairs, eyes on the black, greedy mouth that lead to Bruce’s wing. Instead, he turned and headed back into the wing with the kitchen, steps moving faster, faster. He reached the door into the garage and yanked it open, grip nearly slipping off the knob to send him tumbling to the ground.

He hung on the doorframe and leaned into the frigid cement-floored room—empty, empty, _empty_ but for the long row of shiny chrome-and-steel creatures crouched in the dim, the headlights watching him like dead eyes.

A low whimper escaped despite the sharp pain of Tommy’s teeth pinning his lip and, with a shudder, he scrambled back from the garage door and pushed it shut, hard.

Hard enough to be _loud_.

Loud enough someone should have _heard_.

If someone was there.

This time, Tommy didn’t care about being weird. About being found.

He _wanted_ to be found, out wandering the house way past his bedtime. Wanted to be caught. Wanted there to be a teenage boy to make fun of him, or an old British man to reprovingly chide him, or cold, disappointed blue eyes and a remote, crisp bark of his name—

— _but that’s not Bruce_ —

— _that’s Dad_ —

A high, humiliating whine clogged up the back of Tommy’s throat as he thought he’d give _anything_ for his Dad to turn the corner and look icily furious to find him out of bed and running around.

(Instantly, he hated himself for wanting that again like he hadn’t learned months and months ago not to want it anymore.)

He slipped at the top of the staircase, his knee hitting the edge of the landing hard, but he was scrambling up again in an instant. He looked at Bruce’s wing, then spun for the boys’ first. The distance to Dick’s room felt like inches this time, and his fingers didn’t hesitate on the knob, wrenching, throwing—

Tommy stood on the threshold, thin chest heaving, eyes wide and roving wildly, across floor, bathroom door, desk, closet, dresser—

—to the bed, still made, hardly rumpled.

Dick wasn’t here. Dick wasn’t _here_.

For a second, he hoped, thin and manic, that he’d remembered wrong. Picked the wrong door. There were so many rooms down this hallway alone. Five, maybe. He could have the wrong one—

Above the bed, colors muted in the watered moonlight leaking through the curtains but no doubt bright and eye-catching in the light, was a Haley’s Circus poster.

It was the right room.

 _With nobody in it_.

“No.” It came out, barely, like a tattered thread, slender and frayed. Pathetic.

Angry in his fear, Tommy _slammed_ the door shut, glaring at it through watering eyes as it rattled in the frame. He _stomped_ back the way he came, and this time he didn’t pause before marching into the hungry dark of Bruce’s wing, swallowed eagerly into a hall the felt so empty and quiet Tommy thought of nothing so much as dry brown leaves and rain-spotted gravestones.

He didn’t know which room Bruce used. It could be any of them. In the week Tommy had stayed here, he hadn’t set foot in this hallway. Dick had offered to tour him through that wing too, mouth curled in the same mischief that glittered in his eyes, but Tommy had shaken his head boisterously changed the subject as soon as he knew it was where Bruce’s room was.

Now, he threw open every door. Slammed them all on the nothing they contained.

Pristine bedroom suites as neat and soulless as hotel rooms, one after the other, until—

Bruce’s room was obvious. A little bigger than all the others, the furniture all a little older, a little heavier. It was still neat, somehow more so than the others, which didn’t look lived in but like they wanted to be ready to. Bruce’s room was so neat it _felt_ lived in, like someone who kept things in locked drawers and secrets under beds breathed and slept and moved and _lived_ here.

But not tonight.

Tonight, if anything moved in this room, it was dust, and silence, and ghosts.

The fear began to thin Tommy along the edges, making him feel like he might be one of those ghosts.

He bent over at the knees, and for a moment, _breathing_ was all he could do, until the push-pull, push-pull of his lungs slowed enough to remind him _he_ was here, _he_ was alive.

Here and alive and _alone_.

Tears blurring at his vision, Tommy turned from Bruce’s room with a growl that threatened to taper to a sob, only barely remembering to close the door again behind him.

No more slamming doors. No more stomping down the halls. He drifted, tentative, weak, back to the wide landing overlooking the foyer, lit by slanted moonlight from the windows lining the upper ceiling above the doors.

He stopped in that space and turned a slow, wobbly circle, as if a second look, a third, a fourth a fifth… might reveal them all, hidden in plain sight.

“Hello?”

It came out faint and afraid. It barely came out at all.

A little louder: “Where are you?”

A deep breath, a stiff push of bravado: “Are you hiding? This isn’t funny!”

Tommy waited.

Strained his ears.

Not even his own voice answered, despite the high ceilings, the carpeted runners and entry rug and big chandelier eating up space noise might have filled.

“Come out!” Tommy called. Cupping his hands around his mouth, his voice broke as the words changed to, “Come _back!”_

His hands lowered, every finger shanking, shoulders jerking with juddering breaths. His eyes overfilled, hot and salt and wet spilling down his cheeks, dripping from his chin. He drifted to the carved wooden railing that bordered the landing above the foyer, his hands making loose, clumsy circles around two finely-detailed posts.

“Please.” It was a whisper.

Unanswered, he sank slowly to the floor, pressing his forehead against the posts. He stared at the shapes the light and shadow made on the foyer floor.

“They’ll come back,” he breathed, this time only to himself. “They’ll come back for me. They won’t leave me behind. They won’t leave me alone. They’re coming back.”

He repeated these lies over and over, sitting there and clutching the railing for what felt like hours. Sat there and lied until he admitted he didn’t believe them here any more than he had at the old house.

Stiff, cold, feeling as empty as every room and hall, Tommy wove silent and unsteady steps back down the hall. He slipped into the room he’d been allowed to use, and into the bed he’d borrowed.

Before exhaustion dragged him under, he wondered dully what would happen if no one came back tomorrow.

Eyes squeezing shut, he curled tight into a ball. He would deal with it.

He had before.

He could do it again.

Alone.


	7. seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't expect to be back so fast! this also is not the bit i had planned to be next, but sometimes characters make demands and i am but a lowly writer. i promise this is nothing like as mean as last time. no content warnings this time!

The morning of Tommy’s eighth day in Gotham, Bruce came downstairs in the morning at his usual 6AM, heading to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Dick would be down shortly, still half-asleep and grouchy from their late night, and Alfred wouldn’t be far behind. Bruce had scored a rare victory in their years-long argument that Alfred should take a late morning after manning the Batcave well into the small hours of the night.

What Bruce had not expected to find when he went into the kitchen was Tommy, seated at the small kitchen table with a bowl of cereal and the funny pages from yesterday’s paper spread out on the tabletop, spotted with milk and orange juice. Tommy had slept til nearly 8 every day of the last week, and Bruce had seen no reason not to let him.

Seeing that Tommy had clearly risen before everyone else was a surprise and a concerning break in pattern. To add to the concern, Tommy looked just as startled to see _him_.

“Good morning,” Bruce tested slowly. “You’re up early.”

Tommy tensed and looked away, one shoulder jerking in a dismissive shrug as he shoveled a too-large spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

Hoping he wasn’t messing this up, Bruce asked carefully, “Bad dreams?”

Tommy ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken and Bruce winced discreetly, certain he shouldn’t have asked. Clearing his throat, he let it drop and went to the coffee maker. He left Tommy to his quiet, thinking on how tired he’d been of people trying to make him talk about what he’d felt and how he was coping when he was that age.

Minutes later, Dick shambled into the kitchen like a zombie in a blue pajama set, hair a wild mess and eyes only barely open. He grumbled a hello at Bruce and snatched Bruce’s mug from under the finishing drip, taking a long sip and hissing even as it scalded his lips and tongue.

Reprovingly, Bruce reclaimed his mug. “You are fourteen. Follow Tommy’s example. Orange juice.”

Scowling melodramatically, Dick dragged his feet to the fridge and grunted, “OJ’s not caffeinated.”

“That’s the point.”

Dick grumbled through pulling down a glass and pouring his juice, and Bruce hid a smirk in his coffee mug as he rounded the large center island. Normally, they took breakfast in the dining room, even when it was just toast and eggs or Pop Tarts for Dick. But since Tommy was already seated, Bruce decided to take a seat opposite him at the little eat-in as if this was as normal and routine as anything else.

Tommy didn’t even look up from his funnies.

Despite his grumbling, Dick was already far more awake and more his normal self by the time he headed over to them with orange juice and a silver foil packet in hand. He perched in the chair nearest Tommy’s and craned across the table with a playful curl to his mouth, “Whatcha got there? Ooh, is that—?”

Bruce looked up sharply at the loud smack of palms on tabletop, his brows arching high in surprise. Dick had tried to pull the comics pages towards him and Tommy had reacted with a swift, hard slap of his palms down on the paper, pinning it to the tabletop where it was.

But what drew Bruce up short was the venomous glare Tommy was pinning Dick with.

Dick had sat back sharp in his seat, eyes wide, shocked and a little hurt judging by the slight inward quirk of his brows. “Geez. Sorry.”

Tommy said nothing, just glared until Dick raised his hands from the newspaper pages and held them up in surrender. Bruce frowned as Tommy pulled the pages closer, hunched over them, and went back to his soggy cereal without a word.

Bruce and Dick exchanged a worried glance. For a moment, Bruce considered saying something about Tommy’s behavior, making him apologize to Dick. But he didn’t feel he’d made enough progress with him yet to practice amateur parenting on him. So he said nothing, and Dick slouched back in his chair to unwrap his Pop Tart and cast furtive, watchful glances at Tommy, who ignored them both steadily.

It only got worse as the morning went on. Not even Alfred got an acknowledgement when he joined them in the kitchen. Tommy looked at no one, spoke to no one, just folded up his funnies, put them in the recyclables bin, rinsed his bowl and glass and set them in the sink, and walked out of the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance for any of them.

Bruce felt he’d somehow not only lost all the progress he’d made with Tommy in his first week, but somehow regressed even further.

All of a sudden, he was quiet to the point of silent treatment, and though Bruce had noticed many times that Tommy carried in him an anger mostly hidden, it was closer to the surface than ever, a pot hissing and simmering and threatening to boil over any moment.

Only he never boiled over.

He kept up that spitting low boil for almost two days, spending as much time alone as possible, speaking as little as he could get away with. Two days of no smiles and no laughter, just clenched tight as a fist and ticking like a bomb that refused to go off. 

Bruce was at a loss. Alfred was concerned, watchful, but insisted on being hands off.

“Perhaps he needs to get something out of his system, Master Bruce. We must let him talk to us when he is ready,” Alfred had suggested gently, and as much as it chafed at Bruce, he saw no other approach that didn’t look like it might make things worse.

Dick, on the other hand, was absolutely determined to recover the kid he’d started to befriend, the one who liked his puns and his comics and video games and _talked_ to him.

It was perhaps unsurprising that it was Dick’s persistence that eventually paid off. He needled and nagged and dogged Tommy at every turn the two days of silent treatment, cracking jokes and performing outlandish stunts and gags and being generally annoying, whatever he thought might get a reaction.

And he _did_ get a reaction, though Bruce wasn’t sure it was the one he ought to have been aiming for.

Tommy broke not with giggles or grins, but with a fed-up howl of “Will you _quit it!!”_

There had followed a cackling laugh—Dick—and a growling shout—Tommy—and a loud thump.

Bruce had hurried to the library to find the boys wrestling on the floor between two shelves, pulling at fingers and hair and shoving feet in faces. Bruce stared, stunned, from the doorway, struck by how unfair a fight it was with Dick almost five years older and regularly training in martial arts.

But Dick didn’t pull any of his advantages other than size, letting Tommy get on top of him twice and think he had him pinned before bucking the smaller boy or wriggling out from under him to turn the tables all over again.

Eventually Tommy got fed up, kicking Dick off of him with both feet to the chest—almost impressive, admittedly—and jumping to his feet with an aggravated huff and face red. He glanced to the door and did a wincing doubletake on spotting Bruce. Reddening even more, he shoved past Bruce to run stomping down the hall.

Watching him go until he turned a corner, Bruce shifted his attention to Dick with arms crossed and one eyebrow arched. “Was that the wisest approach, Dick?”

Dick, for his part, snorted and rolled nimbly onto his toes with a grin. Rubbing his sternum lightly in appreciation, he gave Bruce a twinkling look and a shake of his head. “You so obviously didn’t grow up around other kids.”

Bruce frowned as Dick danced breezily past him, hands in pockets. “I had friends.”

“Uh huh,” Dick drawled.

“I wasn’t a child hermit, Dick.”

He spun on his heel in the middle of the hallway to look Bruce in the eye with deep solemnity. “I believe you.” Sarcastic brat. “Trust me, this was good. It’s only up from here.”

Bruce hummed skeptically as Dick strolled whistling down the hall.

But really, he hoped Dick was right.


End file.
